


An Unbalanced Force

by Isagel



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, BDSM, Dominance, F/M, Illium - Freeform, Sexual Slavery, Submission, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An object in motion stays in motion - after Shepard's death and the destruction of the Normandy, Kaidan keeps spinning away from the blast. (The "Undercover as an Indentured Sex Slave on Illium" ME2 AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Replaying Mass Effect 2 in preparation of the new game, I was again struck by how well the system of indentured servitude on Illium is suited to a certain type of cliché kink fic. This time, I decided to actually write it. 
> 
> This fic is an AU of the early parts of ME2, and will contain no spoilers for ME3. I haven't finished ME3 myself, yet, and would be happy not to be spoiled in comments. :)
> 
> I will be posting new chapters of this as I write them, and will try to not take too long between instalments.

After the destruction of the Normandy, they go back, looking for survivors, looking for bodies. Looking for Shepard.

All they find is debris, broken pieces drifting through the void, hurtling outwards from the place of the explosion.

Kaidan stands on the bridge of the rescue vessel, next to a pilot who isn't Joker, and watches fragments of scrap metal spin past, jagged-edged into the dark.

 _That's me,_ he thinks, the realization simple, undramatic, like recognizing your own face in the mirror. _That's me, now._

That is the moment when he knows she is dead.

* * *

He gets his promotion not long after that, the new set of stripes like a condolence bouquet from a concerned relative who doesn't know you well enough to figure out what to put on the card. 

Admiral Hackett presses his hand in congratulation, says something lofty and awkward about his service to the Alliance and his role in saving the Citadel. 

Captain Anderson squeezes his shoulder, tells him that Shepard would have been proud of him. They both look away when their eyes meet, pretending not to see the loss they share.

He drinks too much that night, wakes up the next morning with an empty bottle on his pillow and a universe of silent stars outside his port hole window.

He tries not to wonder if any one of them holds her body, her bones, the remnants of her face, if there is anything left to hold at all.

* * *

There are new postings, new missions, combat situations to get through, civilians to get out alive. Blood Pack mercenaries, Batarian slavers, Cerberus agents running another fucked-up experiment, and they're all of them easier to kill now, with bullets or hands or the crushing force of his biotics. It's not that he's become harder, it's just that it's become harder to care. 

He's never sought danger for the sake of it, never pushed for any position that couldn't be safely held, but still these days, when he returns ship-side and steps into the decontamination chamber, the blood washing off him is as often his own as the enemy's.

* * *

He dreams of her some nights, of her body above him the night before Ilos, of her hands pushing him down, of her mouth staking claim on him. Of the way she'd looked in the dim light, taking her pleasure from him, letting him give.

If he wakes up hard, it's a reason to do push-ups until his arms shake, to stand under the shower until the hot water burns his skin.

If he remembers another burn, of his skin under her fingernails, of her grip on his wrists, it's one more thing he tries not to think about.

When dreaming about her is more than he can take, there is always the bottle to empty out his sleep.

* * *

He hears from the others now and then, the ones who are left from the Normandy. The odd message over the extranet, the even rarer video call. But in the end, the instructors back at basic training were right, and Sir Isaac Newton is still the deadliest son-of-a-bitch in space: an object in motion stays in motion and they're each in their own way speeding away from the blast. When the messages stop coming, when he stops sending them, it's only the inevitable consequence.

* * *

The new men and women he serves with seem to trust him under fire, but once the fighting stops, they all keep their distance. He overhears an occasional whisper, quiet words like "grief" and "survivor's guilt", accompanying glances meant to be discreet. 

But in that final moment on the Normandy, she told him to leave, and he left, and he has never felt guilty about taking her orders. He isn't about to start now.

Still, he lies awake some nights, trying to figure out what he could have done to make her give a different command. 

Maybe what he feels guilty for is second guessing her.

* * *

She has been dead for nineteen months when Captain Anderson comes to him with the mission.


	2. Chapter 2

“I take it you've heard about the refinery accident on New Iberia, Commander?” Anderson asks.

He's invited Kaidan to sit at the conference table in the ship's briefing room, but he has remained standing, himself, looking away out the window at the red surface of the planet below. There is a data pad in his hands, clasped behind his back in the at-ease position. The captain is still, contained, but if Kaidan was going to put a word to his mood, it would be “uncomfortable”.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “It was the number one item in the news last time I was on the Citadel.”

An entire human colony killed by the spill of toxins; men, women and children. It was only a small settlement, before, but now it is nothing but a ghost town. A senseless tragedy, he thought, hearing the broadcasts.

“What we managed to keep out of the news,” Anderson says, “is that it wasn't an accident.”

Kaidan leans forward, forearms on the table.

“A deliberate attack?”

“The first field test for a chemical compound known as LX46, developed in our own research facilities. The man who created it, Hans Nielsen, was one of the Alliance's most talented weapon's scientists, with top level access to a wide range of classified projects. Four years ago, he went rogue, made himself disappear. Since then, he's been selling our weapons technology off piece by piece to the highest bidder. All our attempts to track him have failed. The man is a ghost. However, the need to apprehend him has just become more urgent.” 

Anderson turns, looks at him. There is a determination in the set of his jaw that feels grim, almost as if he is trying to talk himself into something he already knows needs to be done. It isn't the first time Kaidan has seen that expression on his face. Anderson is a good commanding officer – he doesn't like having to ask more of his men than he thinks they should be required to give. 

Kaidan straightens in his chair, waiting.

“LX46,” Anderson goes on, “is a biological weapon tailored to cause only human casualties. It targets human brain tissue, breaks it down within a matter of minutes, but it leaves all other known species unharmed. The few Asari and Salarian residents on New Iberia were unaffected by the disaster, another fact we've managed to contain. If Nielsen is testing the compound on this scale, then he is demonstrating its usefulness to potential buyers, preparing to sell it. I don't have to tell you what something like this could do in the wrong hands, Commander.”

No, he doesn't. Which begs the question:

“What was the Alliance doing, developing a weapon like this in the first place?”

Anderson lets out a sigh.

“A weapon that could potentially neutralize an internal human threat without disrupting our relationships with other races? I'm sure someone in Alliance Command deemed it useful. That is beside the point, though. What matters now is finding Hans Nielsen before he can sell the compound. Alive if at all possible, dead if there is no other option. Fortunately for us, we now have the first solid lead we've had in years. There is a contact of his on Illium, out near the Terminus systems, an Asari who controls a network for exporting drugs that are illegal on most Council worlds. We have reason to believe he visits her with some regularity.” 

He takes the couple of steps over to the table, places the PDA he's been holding down in front of Kaidan. The device clicks against the metal of the table top, the sound sharp, distinct over the continuous hum of the ship's engines. 

“Intelligence has found us a way in,” Anderson says.

Kaidan picks up the PDA, begins reading. Anderson returns to the window.

The plan calls for a single operative, placed under cover, lying in wait for the moment when Nielsen turns up at his contact's residence on Illium. Kaidan would ask “Why me?” except that he can see why, in every line of the report, and, more clearly, between them. 

Going in like that, alone and unarmed, with no reliable way to signal for pick-up or reinforcements, would call for hand-to-hand skills tested in combat as a prerequisite, but biotics would give the added edge that could tilt the odds that little bit in your favor. Especially if kept a secret; no one ever expects a human to be a biotic, the probability is still too damn low, even with lunatics like Cerberus arranging eezo spills as if they were lab experiments, as if unborn children were samples in their test tubes. Biotics is the weapon of surprise that would make achieving a mission objective like this feasible, not just a crap-shoot.

Kaidan could have been picked for this on those criteria alone, simply based on what's in his service record.

There are details in the report, though, that suggest Alliance Command have been paying a lot closer attention to his personal business than he would ever have guessed. Either that, or they knew things about Shepard that make them infer complementary things about him. The way they feared and idolized Shepard in equal measure, he can't imagine there was anything about her they wouldn't try to find out.

Regardless of their methods, though, whatever guesses they've made would appear to not be far off the mark. Maybe that should upset him more, that invasion of privacy, maybe they're expecting him to be upset – ashamed, even, or insulted – and that's why Anderson seems so uneasy, but if that's how they see him, as the man Shepard kept on his knees, then at least he did something right by her in the short time they had, at least he has that to live up to, even if there is very little left for him to live _for_.

And that's the final reason, of course, the thing that makes him the perfect candidate for this mission. He's been living his life like someone with nothing to lose – no attachments, no obligations but his duty as a soldier, nothing to hold him in the world. If he signs himself away, there is no one who could make a counter-claim, no one left to dispute the terms. Most days, he doubts there is even enough left of _him_ to do that.

He realizes that he's been quiet for a long time when Captain Anderson pulls a chair out and sits down across the corner of the table from him.

“Look, Alenko,” Anderson says. “Kaidan.” He runs his hand over his old-style regulation hair. “No one could ever order you to do this, you know that. Hell, I'm not even asking. You volunteer, or you don't, it's as simple as that. No one will come hassling you over your decision, you have my word.”

But Nielsen would still be out there, the formula for his bio-weapon would still be out there, waiting for someone crazy or committed enough to use it on a larger colony, to use it on Earth. Body bags only come in one size, but it had been easy to tell, in the news footage from New Iberia, which bags contained children.

All things considered, it's not really a decision.

He looks up, meeting Anderson's eyes.

“I volunteer, sir.”

Anderson sits back a little. If Kaidan didn't know him better, he would say the captain looked startled by whatever he sees on his face.

“You realize what you'd be committing to? What indentured servitude means on Illium, the likely...terms of the particular contract you'd be signing? There's no way of knowing how long you would have to play the part before you had an opportunity to complete the mission.”

Kaidan nods, doesn't blink.

“I understand, sir. And I wish to volunteer.”

For a long moment, Anderson looks at him. 

For a long moment, Kaidan lets himself be looked at.

“Christ, son,” Anderson says at last. “I would tell you how much it worries me that you don't seem more worried, but I can't afford to turn you down on this. I'll set the wheels in motion, and you get ready to travel.” He stands, and Kaidan stands with him. “I won't pretend to understand your decision, Kaidan, but I'm grateful for your commitment to duty. The Alliance is grateful.” He holds out his hand. “Good hunting, Commander.”

For a moment, Kaidan wants to try and explain. About the laws of a Newtonian universe and the constancy of speed, about objects spinning blindly through space. About how any thought of stopping, any thought of changing course, is meaningless, if there is no force strong enough to hold you back, to block your path.

But what he does is shake the captain's hand.

“Thank you, sir,” is all he says.


	3. Chapter 3

Chora's Den might have been crushed under the weight of Sovereign's falling wreckage, but it had been far from the only seedy bar on the Citadel before the attack, and afterward, the surviving competition didn't fail to relocate, rebuild, and pick up the slack. The place where he finds Joker used to be called something slightly different, used to be one level higher up, with more dents in the bulkheads from Krogan bar-fights, but it still has the same cheap drinks, the same bored-looking dancers and the same rough-looking clientele. If Garrus were here, he would likely recognize the same criminals in the dimly lit corners, the same dealers and enforcers and petty thieves. But Garrus has been gone for months.

Joker is sitting at the bar, dressed in civvies. He's twisting a tumbler of what looks like scotch in hands, looking up at the Asari writhing on the stage with eyes that seem focused somewhere far beyond her. He doesn't fit the room nearly as well as he probably thinks.

Kaidan slides onto the empty stool beside him, leaning an elbow on the counter. Joker throws a glance in his direction, a shift of his eyes, barely turning his head. Then his whole body whips around, lightning-quick like his reaction time in the pilot's seat. His face has lit up in a grin.

“LT!” he exclaims, clapping a hand on Kaidan's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Or, hey, no, I keep forgetting you're moving up in the world, _Commander_. Don't lose sight of us little guys on the ground when you get to the top, huh?”

It's meant as nothing but a joke, he's sure of that, but the smile doesn't quite reach Joker's eyes, and there is a bitterness sharpening the edges of his voice, more vicious than his usual sarcasm. It isn't hard to guess where it's coming from.

“They still keeping you grounded?” Kaidan asks. “I thought they'd have come to their senses by now.”

“Yeah, you and me both, man.” Joker looks away, drains the remaining contents of his glass in one long swallow, grimacing at the burn of it. “Doesn't matter, though. I've got a new job offer from someone who can appreciate talent when they see it navigating the meteor fields of Taurika Prime without as much as a pebble scraping the hull. Might even decide to take it, and screw Alliance Command.” He leans close to Kaidan, as if imparting a secret, and touches a finger to his own lips. The movement is swaying, unsteady with a lot more drinks than the one he just downed. “'s very hush-hush, though. Don't tell anyone.”

Kaidan is the one who reaches out this time, putting a steadying hand on Joker's upper arm.

“Just take care of yourself, okay?”

It's a ridiculous thing to say, he knows that, given the mission he's decided to accept, himself. But Joker was the one Shepard gave her life to save. He couldn't bear it if that was wasted.

“Hey, you know me,” Joker says, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a mischievous smile. “When am I not?”

Kaidan can't help but laugh at that, and Joker takes the opportunity to signal the bartender, declaring that Kaidan needs a drink, getting another one for himself. They're quiet for a while, the heavy beat of the music and the enticing roll of the dancer's hips, which they are neither of them paying the attention it deserves, reasons enough not to talk, to shelve all the hard things in favor of just sharing this space. But Kaidan came here for a reason.

He takes another sip of his scotch, and pulls the envelope from the inside pocket of his civilian jacket.

“Look, Joker,” he says. “I want to ask you a favor.”

Joker looks down at the envelope, up at him.

“You know you've got a free pass, there, Alenko,” he says, and Kaidan does, that's why he's here. They may not have stayed in touch, but if there are any people in the galaxy he would drop everything for at a moment's notice, it's the old crew of the Normandy. He's pretty sure he can count on that going both ways.

“I'm going on a mission,” he says. “For the Alliance. It's...” He hesitates, taps the edge of the envelope against the metal counter of the bar. “The op isn't exactly standard. I'd feel better if I knew that someone I trust had my back. So.” He slides the envelope along the bar to Joker. It's plain, white, old-fashioned paper, sealed and unmarked. Somehow it had felt better putting this down with pen on paper than on a datapad that could be hacked. Joker takes it from him, turns it over in his hands. “Everything in there is classified,” Kaidan explains. “But if you haven't heard from me in six months, I want you to open it. If you're able to, you can share the information with the old crew – Liara, Garrus, Tali, Wrex. No one else. I don't think it'll become necessary, but just in case, I want someone to know where to look for me. Okay?”

Joker turns on his stool again, all the way around to fully face him. His eyes look a lot more sober than they did a moment ago.

“And you're the one asking me to be careful?” he says. “Really?”

“Don't tell me you don't need it,” Kaidan says. He puts a smile in it, means it as a tease, but his eyes have caught on the lopsided angle of Joker's shoulders, the bones permanently twisted out of true now, from the pull of Shepard's hands when she dragged him from the burning bridge of the Normandy. Because in that moment she had cared more about his life than his fragility.

They look at each other in silence.

Somewhere behind Kaidan's back, a Krogan is yelling filthy compliments at the dancer.

The music changes.

“You know,” Joker says, “I'm not the only one she chose to save, you ever think about that? And you, my friend -” He stabs a finger at Kaidan's chest. “- should drink up, because we're gonna need a whole other bottle. Barkeep!”

Before he orders the scotch, though, he slips the envelope in the thigh pocket of his pants and fastens the button over it.

Kaidan throws back his drink, feeling it burn all the way down.


End file.
